


A Chance Meeting

by MajorIndecision



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But They Make a Stop First, Fellowship of the Ring, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Other, Sauron is Mentioned, They Haven't Destroyed the Ring Yet, They're getting there, just for fun, rated for language, very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorIndecision/pseuds/MajorIndecision
Summary: “Gandalf,” spit Boromir, eyeing the creaking branches with something between distaste and caution, “wouldn’t it have been better to take a more subtle route?”The wind howled eerily above them, as though offering to answer the question itself.“Better in the sense of remaining undetected, perhaps,” Gandalf called, if only to indulge his human companion, “but not in the sense of remaining alive.”--or--Gandalf suggests a particular route to Mordor that conjoins the Fellowship's path with one of a peculiar (and particularly sassy) elf.





	A Chance Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't actually watched the movies for a long time, and so details may be incorrect or I may be noticeably dusty? Hope you enjoy anyway!

Wind rustled through the broad leaves of the trees above as they trudged across the forest path, wary of all surroundings.

“Gandalf,” spit Boromir, eyeing the creaking branches with something between distaste and caution, “wouldn’t it have been better to take a more subtle route?” 

The wind howled eerily above them, as though offering to answer the question itself.

“Better in the sense of remaining undetected, perhaps,” Gandalf called, if only to indulge his human companion, “but not in the sense of remaining alive.”

“Remaining alive? Why wouldn’t we remain alive?” squeaks Samwise. Frodo flails his arm at him, shushing him violently.

“Remember, Sam, we’re bypassing an orc settlement,” he hissed harshly. Sam’s eyes went wide before he clasped a single hand over his mouth.

Gimli shook his head. “You hobbits are something else,” he offered, only to be shushed by Legolas; the elf received a glare.

“How da—”

“ _ Shh!  _ I hear something in the trees,” Legolas whispered. It was enough to put the entire party on guard, goosebumps crawling along their skin as they unsheathed their weapons and gazed upward, eyes darting across the taunting branches.

In truth, it was not the trees they needed to worry about; two orcs came sprinting out of the bushes, wailing maniacally as they charged for the nearest body: Pippin, who screamed as one of the ugly creatures drew near.

Legolas had not been wrong about something within the trees; for the humanoid figure swooped down to land atop the wailing beast’s head, sinking their sword into its neck before twisting with a sickening crack. The sudden appearance gave the other orc pause, and the swift throw of a dagger from their belt was all that was necessary to end it, given their good aim; the blade squelched into the creature’s eye, and drove itself deeper when the corpse collapsed forward onto the ground.

Pippin, at this point, was hiding behind Merry, legs quaking; with the immediate danger out of the way, he straightened himself and swallowed dryly, an attempt to appear courageous. “I wasn’t scared,” he sputtered to his companions.

Not all listened. Boromir, in particular, scoffed and sent a glare to Gandalf. “Remaining alive, is it?”

The party’s weapons were still drawn. The unknown figure, dressed in handmade garb that blended in with the forest environment relatively well, crouched over their first kill, turning the ugly head from side to side.

“Not even scouts,” came the distinct Elven accent, though devoid of the pompous tone usually associated with them, “looks to be lessers that tried to escape.”

“Which means more will come,” piped Gimli. Gandalf waved him to be quiet, approaching the figure; Aragorn urged caution.

“Careful, friend,” he said, “simply because one saves another does not mean they are friendly.”

“Yes, yes,” Gandalf rumbled, “but the element of surprise is quite gone, and with an appearance like that, he must be alone. If he were going to attack us, he should have done it earlier.”

“I’ve no interest in attacking you,” speaks the figure. They get to their feet and calmly walk over to the other orc’s body, acutely aware of Legolas’ gaze and nocked arrow trained on the back of their head.

“What  _ is  _ your interest, then?” growls Boromir. The figure pauses and looks back to him.

“Quite the charming one, aren’t you?”

Aragorn stilled his friend’s hateful response with a hand upon his shoulder, gazing at the cloaked figure; he spoke eloquently. “Odd for someone to be scouting this deep in the woods,” he admits, “is there a camp around here?”

“Yeah, an orc camp,” bit Gimli, but Legolas elbowed him in the back of the head. (He would have aimed for the torso, but since Gimli is a dwarf, the height distance is too great.)

“I live nearby,” the figure admits, “alone.”

“How do we know we can trust you?” Merry speaks up without invitation to input his two cents.

Wordlessly, the figure crouched to the orc’s corpse, turning it over and procuring their dagger from within its eye socket; they wipe the blade off on their trousers and sheath it. Using the resulting moment of silence to their advantage, they reach up and pull down the hood of their cloak, revealing their features.

He was most certainly Elven, distinguishable by his smooth yet sharp features, pointed ears and slim eyes and relatively long nose and brow; his hair, unlike most elves, was short, and distinctly red.

“A ginger elf?” Pippin’s shock was met with an elbow to the rib cage from Frodo.

“They exist,” Legolas murmured, “but only in a certain family, from what I’ve heard.”

“And I am not of that family,” speaks the elf, turning his gaze onto Legolas. In an instant, their calm demeanor was shattered, growing instead bitter and cold.

“You are an elf,” Boromir says, “and what is an elf doing so far from Rivendell?”

“Believe it or not,” the elf sneers, “one can choose to live away from others of their kind.”

His sarcasm was met with Boromir’s blade, its tip held against his throat. Aragorn was the one to break this connection before it could become more intimate.

“Watch your weapons, friend,” the ranger spit, met with his human companion’s infamous glares of rage.

The figure before them rolled his shoulders back; Legolas kept his gaze trained onto him, unable to contain the curiosity bubbling within him. “What is your name?”

“You’re clearly all on some important mission,” chimes the elf, “are you not wasting time by remaining here?”

Finally, Frodo stepped forward. He held the One Ring in his grasp, brandishing it from the chain around his neck. “Maybe you could help us,” he spoke, before Gandalf could stop him.

The elf’s eye catches the Ring, his breath hitching in his throat. He soars forward in an instant, catching the demented piece of metal and shoving it back into Frodo’s shirt.

“What a fool,” he hissed, “to display such artifacts of power! What are you imbeciles doing, flaunting such a relic?”

“We’re going to destroy it,” Frodo squeaked in surprise, “we might need help getting to Mordor!”

Silence fell over the party. Wind whistled between the leaves of the trees, strangely serene when compared to their earlier tempest, but it was no less sinister; finally, it was Gandalf that spoke.

“Excuse me,” he bowed slightly to the elf, “but I think it’s time we left.”

“Wait,” said the elf. Everyone stopped once more, weapons still cautiously drawn.

The figure looked to Frodo and gazed into his eyes; he stared back into the blue irises that studied him, reminded faintly of stirred pools of lake, before the elf finally nodded, breaking the trance.

“I’ll accompany you,” they say, “but I cannot guarantee that I will remain the entire trip. At the very least, I’ll see you out of these woods.”

“Thank you,” Frodo breathed, “that’s better than nothing.”

“We’re going to need something to call you,” Legolas spoke up, apparently still concerned with the elf’s name. He turned back and gazed at the archer with a sneer.

“Alcibiades,” he offered; it was clear he’d only given it to shut Legolas up.

The archer’s brows knit together in confusion, twitching in coordination with his mouth as he mumbled beneath his breath: “A human name?”

“He doesn’t seem to like you,” Gimli pointed out, mostly to be an asshole—but Legolas found use in the statement, speaking up from the back; Alcibiades had begun to lead the party down the twisting road, residing at the front of the party.

“I have never met an elf that harbored ill will towards another of his own people. Have I personally offended you?”

“Always concerned with character and outward appearances,” breathed Alcibiades. He turned back to look at Legolas, peering at him.

“It’s clear to me that none of you know this region or these paths—at least not as well as I do. You’ve gotten your knowledge from some map drawn by a hand that has grazed these trees back when they were still saplings, with smudged details and smeared craftsmanship; I have walked these roads a hundred times, and I know every bump and danger.”

“How...How is that relevant to Legolas’ question,” Merry asked dumbly.

“Because if he doesn’t quit asking me stupid questions, I’ll leave you all to die,” said Alcibiades.

“Pleasant man,” grumbled Gimli. The elf turned to the dwarf.

“What is your name?”

“Gimli,” the dwarf said proudly, puffing his chest out. He was met with a sincere smile from the otherwise unfriendly man before him.

“A good name for a good warrior,” he says. He turns to the rest of them, speaking: “And all of you?”

Introductions went quickly given the time already spent on the path. Gandalf was one to try and hurry the pace, so Alcibiades settled for walking and talking with the party, though he kept himself ever alert.

He had sent some cordial compliments towards each member of the party, likely to ease tensions—but he had made no attempts to do so with Legolas. The elf grit his teeth, and Gimli snorted at his frustration.

“Must kill you,” he breathed, “an elf that likes a dwarf more than another elf.”

Legolas glared at him. “I simply do not understand what I could have done to offend him.”

“It clearly wasn’t you,” Aragorn speaks up, falling behind and closer to them to keep his voice low as he spoke, “it was another elf, or other elves. With angers like those, it’s typically the actions of a few that taint the image of the whole.”

“Unless they’re orcs,” Gimli offered. Aragorn nods.

“Unless they’re orcs.”

“Have you no mounts?” asked Alcibiades from the front, catching the attention of those in the back and their side conversations. Gandalf spoke up to answer him.

“We found it better to travel without them,” he explains, “as we are already a formidable party. Mounts would be hard to travel with in these woods, and would simply draw attention to us.”

“Besides,” Legolas says, “Gimli would need a step ladder.”

His comment was met with an elbow from Gimli, which he was expecting; he did not, however, receive a chuckle or any sort of acknowledgement from Alcibiades. He frowned as the air around them fell quiet once more.

“How long until we get out of this forest?” speaks Frodo, breaking the silence. Alcibiades looks back at him.

“I was never very good at estimates,” he says, “but considering the sun will fall soon, it may be best to make camp and stay the night within the concealment of the trees.”

“Don’t start a fire,” Samwise told Merry and Pippin.

“We wouldn’t have to make camp if we hadn’t wasted all that time,” Boromir sneers.

“We wouldn’t have such a negative atmosphere if you’d shut your mouth,” Alcibiades retorted. Gandalf interrupted whatever response the human was to give.

“Aragorn, would you scout the area and find the best place to set up camp?”

“I’ll come with him,” Alcibiades mentions. Aragorn looks to him.

“I appreciate the company,” he says, “but I can manage on my own. I’m a ranger.”

“I can tell,” Alcibiades says, “but a ranger is only as good as his knowledge of the region, and you’re in uncharted territory. Besides, it’s always good to have an extra set of eyes. Make sure you don’t die and all.”

“Is that why you live alone,” speaks Legolas. Alcibiades looks back to him.

“I live alone to avoid people like you,” he answered pointedly. Aragorn patted the elf on the shoulder and waved him over, if only to keep him from further antagonizing the archer.

As they walked ahead, Aragorn stole glances at Alcibiades. There were a number of analytical questions and thoughts swimming around in his head, and he knew it more healthy to share them than keep them locked within his mind; after all, that’s what drove mortal men mad.

“Must be hard hiding with brilliant hair like that,” he commented, “but I suppose that cloak works very well for that. Did you make it yourself?”

“I did,” Alcibiades answers, “but it was quite difficult.”

“Getting the pattern right?”

“Doing it with one arm.”

Aragorn temporarily stopped in his shock, glancing over to his companion. Alcibiades halted next to him and turned to face him, blue eyes calculating as the ranger dragged his gaze over his slim form; he realized that the cloak only had one sleeve, and was designed to hide the disability the elf spoke of.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realize—”

“That’s the point,” Alcibiades interrupts with a shrug, “don’t apologize. It just means my design is working as intended.” He turned and began walking again. Aragorn followed, analyzing his demeanor for any semblance of offense, but it seemed like the elf had taken none.

“If I may ask,” he starts politely, “what happened?”

Alcibiades’ stride slowed. He appeared to contemplate the inquiry before looking to Aragorn. “Honestly?”

The ranger nods; with the encouragement, the elf takes a deep breath before speaking: “My own people cut it off.”

Aragorn, needless to say, was taken aback, surprised by the revelation; he sputtered for a moment. “Why would they do that?”

“I didn’t agree with leaving the dwarves to die,” Alcibiades spoke bluntly. He looked to the ranger beside him before pulling up the side of his cloak, revealing the stub protruding from his shoulder.

Aragorn was shocked into silence for a long moment. Finally, he looked to Alcibiades, bowing his head slightly. “That’s why you don’t care for Legolas,” he speaks. It was more of a statement than a question.

It was a statement that Alcibiades nodded in concurrence to; Aragorn wasted no time with his response. “Just because he is an elf does not mean he is like those that took your arm.”

“No,” Alcibiades agrees, “but I really can’t afford to assume that he is not and let my guard down. Besides, he acts just like them.”

Aragorn turns his gaze to him. “And how is that?”

“Pretentious, imperious,” murmurs the elf, “cares more for their appearance than each other. Places themselves above the men and women of other races for little to no justification, senselessly endangers the lives of others with their vanity.”

“Legolas isn’t that bad,” Aragorn argues gently, “he has fought diligently alongside us since the beginning of our journey.”

“Just because one fights alongside you does not mean he does it for noble reasons,” Alcibiades speaks.

“Still,” the ranger starts thoughtfully, “the elves you speak of would sooner bend their knee to Sauron than the greater good. Does that not set Legolas apart from them?”

“Not really. At the end of the day, the ‘greater good’ usually means you’ll die unless you help.”

“Is that why you’re helping?”

Aragorn worried for a moment that he had offended his companion. The silence between them grew miles long before he returned his gait to a consistent, quick pace, searching amongst the foliage for a suitable camp.

“Honestly,” he mentions, “I’m not sure why I’m helping you—whether it is for my own interests or the lives of others. I would like to think that it is a combination of both.”

“Why is it that you do not know?” Aragorn intently scanned Alcibiades’ face for any glimmer of emotion save for a fortuitous calm, any sudden falter in composure.

“I haven’t put much thought into it,” the elf admits. Aragorn finds sincerity in his voice and face as he continues: “Truth be told, I think I simply cannot tell the difference anymore. Whether it is because the two are so similar in this scenario or because my heart is numbed by betrayal, I do not know.”

Aragorn goes quiet. He tears his gaze away from Alcibiades, returning to the task at hand; he spots an area of flat ground that lies high on the ledge of a mountain, existence concealed by trees. He points it out.

“How about that land, up there?” he murmurs lowly. Alcibiades turns his head and looks over the terrain, humming thoughtfully.

“An advantage of height and significant cover by the canopius trees. I don’t see why it shouldn’t suffice, so long as we don’t give off any unnecessary lights.”

“Just keep the hobbits away from the kindling,” Aragorn jokes lightly. Alcibiades didn’t seem one to laugh, as he hadn’t done so thus far, but he did give the ranger a snort and a smirk.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, turning to meet back up with the rest of the Fellowship.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I probably won't add to this unless anyone specifically asks, because I don't particularly like writing with my own characters simply because I feel readers don't like it either?
> 
> But you're welcome to prove me wrong!


End file.
